Of Love and Root Beer Floats
by cakeaddict61
Summary: If you don't mind a sad ending, please click, if you are in the mood for something happy, please scream and run away.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own any Series of Unfortunate Events Characters. I just made up a story about it.

Prologue

It is an inevitable fact that love stories are often maligned and unjustly stereotyped. I'm sure many of my sympathetic readers out there in the wide world agree. When the often impossibly skinny girl falls for the always impossibly sensitive guy, we all squirm in our seats as they inevitably proceed to kiss in the rain. Then we sigh-guy and girl wind up together again? BORING. Because we saw it coming ,we did. Then there's the other alternative, in which skinny always winds up dead from an incurable disease or sensitive charges to the rescue of his lady-love, and winds up flattened by a speeding train(which, ironically, is also incurable). There is a third option; in the well-known Shakespearean way, of killing off both skinny and sensitive( which almost always has to do with rebelling against their parent's wishes to stop being so immature and just marry the mailman for pity's sake) but that in my opinion, is the easy way out.

You see, we leave the movie theater much more depressed and cynical if only one love is dead while the other remains, to pine for all eternity...

After experiencing one of these ghastly examples of true love, you find yourself either depressed, or ashamed at wasting an hour and fifty-nine minutes of your valuable life- two very uncomfortable places to be I might add.

I was in fact just about to assure you that this love story is nothing like what I mentioned above, when I realized, sadly, that I cannot. After reading this story, you will most likely be sad for the characters, but you will feel even more remorse over the fact that those who lose their dearest loves are not actors and actresses on some stage but are normal people. They have jobs and hobbies and guinea pigs like you and I. They reluctantly wake up in the morning, drink their coffee and endure traffic like any other person. They live their life, whether in toleration or despair I do not know, for losing your love can be a life-altering experience. I remember when I lost mine(along with my favorite cd), I could hardly look at Antonelly's Peppermint Shop or listen to a Switchfoot song without bursting into loud wails. So now that we have noted that people who have lost a loved one live normal lives, I must pose some questions regarding my account. What of those who do not lead normal lives? You are staring at me oddly, yet I mean what I say. What of whose jobs are so dangerous I cannot even tell you what they are, only that they involve ancient Polynesian codes, poison darts, and fettuccini sauce? What of those whose hobbies involve rhetorical analysis, bat training, or smuggling volumes of poetry into Peru? What of your next door neighbor who feeds his guinea pigs special super power guinea pig formula? This question I _can _answer. Their heartache is just the same.

The next question I must pose is the theme of my entire collection of playbills, diary entries, newspaper clippings, eyewitness accounts, and several files stolen from the A.L.S.(Amateur Limerick Society) which cannot really be called a story. The question(which can change tense as needed) , the counter piece for this tale is simply this-"Was it Love?"

Now the question, "Is it love?"(notice tense change) like the questions, "Is it alive?" or "Is it refundable?" have disappointing and more than likely frightening answers. The greatest minds of our time over the years have struggled with it, Shakespeare, Homer, Elvis, John Milton, Jon Foreman, even I myself. Even you yourself, perhaps on a cloudy day, when you're feeling glum, or watching Oprah,( or trying to evade the street vendor and his hot dog stand who are following you) have asked the question, shakily, hesitantly, regretfully( as the person who is the receiver of said affection may be in line at the supermarket behind you) "Was it love?". As you read this account, I would like you to ponder the answer to reason behind the reason that such unfortunate things happen to unfortunate people, and if the answer is a question, and if that question is, "Was it love?". Who can tell? Was it fire? Was it an accident? Was it Bono? Was it a secret message never sent? Was it love? Hey, I just want you to be able to listen to Switchfoot and eat peppermints with a peaceful mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

On the day of her death, Beatrice Baudelaire woke up to a foggy grey morning. She breathed deeply and stretched underneath the covers. She turned her head to gaze at her husband, who was still asleep and snoring softly. Rising gently so as not to wake him, she peered at the clock. It was five thirty, and Beatrice gave a sigh of relief. All of her three children would still be sleeping. Night robe tied tightly about her waist, she crept her way down the winding staircase. She would make herself a nice cup of tea. That would help, would it not? But while she sat at the table and waited for the water to boil, she suddenly remembered what today was. Today was _the _day; and yet she could hardly believe it was true. Hadn't she remembered all this week? Hadn't she waited nervously for it to arrive and be over with? But she had forgotten, in the rush of her life, that today a man named Lemony Snicket had been dead for sixteen years. Forgotten, in her early morning solitude, how much that unfortunate fact still cut her to the very core. And indeed, just a mere forty-five minutes later, Beatrice's husband entered the kitchen to find her on the floor, weeping silently as the tea kettle whistled on, interrupted. She remembered that the day she had been told of Lemony's death was quite like this one, flat and relatively unremarkable. An old friend had visited the tiny apartment where she and Bertrand used to live; Beatrice could even remember the shade of the kitchen tiles-a ghastly deep green. Her friend's name was Olivia, and she had come with a mournful look on her face and a newspaper clipping clasped in her hand. The newspaper was called _The Daily Punctilio_, and was not a very reliable source on news, however trivial. Beatrice had stopped reading it after the theatrical review column ceased to be published. By the look on Olivia's face, Beatrice had known their was something her friend didn't want to say.

"What is it Olivia?" she had asked, " what is the matter?"

"Oh Beatrice," Olivia whimpered, "Lemony is dead." Beatrice remembered her disbelief; even as she read the headline, "LEMONY SNICKET IS DEAD". She also remembered, sitting on the floor after a few days of silent despair and crying just as she was now.

After shutting off the burner, Bertrand sat on the floor beside her and gently put his arms around her shoulders.

"Today's the day, isn't it?" he asked. Beatrice could only nod her head yes, and dab at her eyes with the handkerchief.

"He certainly has been gone for quite a while, yet it seems like only yesterday when..." Bertrand's voice gave out, and he hung his head. Beatrice knew what he had been about to say.

"When things were different." When brave comrades and close friends had been alive. When a person could travel without the need for disguises, and libraries were held in higher esteem. When newspapers and dry cleaners could be trusted, and yaks were a suitable means for transportation. Beatrice and her husband could remember a time when the society they worked for was not so dangerous, secretive, or filled with such treachery. But all that had happened before the schism of V.F.D. a time they had never been apart of. Was the world quiet then?

" I know how close you two were." Bertrand said simply and sorrowfully.

"No you don't," a voice whispered in Beatrice's head, but nevertheless, she just wiped away the last traces of her tears and stood.

"That was a very long time ago." But did it matter, really? However many years now lay between now and when Lemony was alive, it did not effect her memory in the slightest. She still remembered when they had first met...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

And the strange thing was that Lemony Snicket in fact was not dead at all. Cold-yes, lonely-yes, hiding from a pack of sinister-looking barber shop owners-yes, but very much alive. He was the current resident of a very damp but nevertheless empty catacomb, more than a mile underneath the church of St. Francis. Lemony's few friends who either attended, worked, or lived at St. Francis had tried to make the place comfortable for him by adding a small couch, a record player, and a collection of Tennyson's poems. However, spending one's time typing on a most unreliable typewriter in a place that was used to hold the deceased, while presumed to be deceased yourself for that matter, isn't easily made comfortable.

Furthermore, Lemony didn't enjoy Tennyson's poetry. He had once read a poem by Tennyson that involved a lady and a mirror and the final stanza had saddened him each time he read it. So, as Lemony typed gloomily on his gloomy typewriter in his gloomy surroundings, you can imagine how he felt a few hours previous when section of _The Daily Punctilio_(along with a loaf of raisin bread)was lowered down through the bars above. That newspaper clipping had looked Lemony squarely in the eye and told him he was dead; when he clearly knew that he was not. But then again, typed Lemony, there's really no point in arguing with newspaper. He sighed, and wondered how many people he had known who were presumed dead and were really alive. He also thought about all the people who were presumed alive when they were really dead-his guinea pigs, for instance. And Lemony thought of Beatrice, and where she was and what she was doing. He thought of the day they had first met, and of all the misfortunes that seemed to follow them since. He also thought of how nice it would be if Brother Bernardo could send him down some jam for his raisin bread.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Fire and smoke, swirling, stinging, chafing smoke, all around him. Lemony was young, momentarily paralyzed, and in the middle of his first real fire drill, that unfortunately involved actual fire.

"This is not a drill," he realized with growing panic " this is for real." Immediately his mind became clear, as years of fire drill training began to kick in. He dropped to his hands and knees. He exited the door and made for the nearest exit in his school. He prayed that his new coattails wouldn't get singed. They were his pride and joy.

Despite the smoke, he could make out other students crawling, to his left, to his right, in front and in back of him. Some had damp towels or jackets draped over their heads; many, like Lemony, were coughing, but all remained calm as they fought for their objective-the outdoors.

Lemony could see several corridors and hallways on fire and one thought remained stuck in his head- "How did they find out about us?" Lemony thought of the beautiful V.F.D. school, his only home for the past seven years. The comfortable dorm rooms, the informative library, the overstocked kitchen, the well-equipped laboratory and cozy typewriter room-all these places had made up Lemony's only haven in a wicked world. And now, in a matter of minutes, it would be destroyed. "But then again," thought Lemony, "so will you, if you don't hurry!" He quickened his pace, he rounded a corner, he received a particularly nasty shove from the one eye-browed boy from second period astronomy, but nevertheless recovered. He was outside! It was cold and windy, both conditions terrible for the fire, Lemony knew. As he stood, coughing and shaking, he watched what had once been his home go up in smoke, all that beauty and nobility being eaten away by the vengeful fire. Over the crash of falling wood, and the roaring of the fire, Lemony heard a noise. Not far away, was a little girl his own age, hunched over with cold and fright. She had a purple ribbon in her hair, and she was crying,( something Lemony felt like doing himself now that he thought about it.)

But instead he walked over to her, took off his coat, tails and all, and draped it over her shaking soldiers.

"It'll be all right." he said in his most reassuring voice. The girl looked up at him, her tears tracing paths on her smoke -stained cheeks.

"Who're you?" she asked in a small voice.

"My name is Lemony Snicket" said Lemony Snicket.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It had been five years since the fire. The new V.F.D. headquarters were located in the Mortmain Mountains, as beautiful and well-equipped as the last. As Lemony entered his 4th period English class, early as usual, he pondered the meaning of home. He missed his old school in which he had grown up in certainly, but this building was now the one he thought of as home. He missed the gazebos and many ancient stories of the old castle, but he loved the hidden passageways and sprawling property of this new mansion even more. Indeed, over the past years, his new school had grown on him considerably, and it now fit him like an old pair of sneakers. It was strange how hearts seemed to adapt so quickly, and how lives changed in no amount of time at all. Oblivious of two other students who were in the classroom, Lemony opened his book, _Rhetoric in the Middle Ages: What was the point? _. It's not that he was being unfriendly, Lemony was simply by nature, shy. If he had any hope of his peers responding positively, he would have ventured to say hello, but as it was , Lemony had come to bear the reputation of a rather snobbish student who kept to himself. No, making his friends was not his speciality-quiet observation and reclusive hobbies, that was another story...

Just then, a girl walked in, bright-eyed, with a rosy tinge to her cheeks. Her books were tucked in the crook of her arm, and she held a sheaf of papers in her hand.

Another student, a boy with spiky brown hair, called out a greeting, "Hey there, B, I can see you finished your essay!" The students at V.F.D had an occasional habit of calling each other by the first letter of their names.

Lemony gulped and raised his book to hide his face. He knew who this girl was, he'd harbored rather a secret crush on her for years. Uncharacteristic of most secret crushes, Lemony felt no throb of joy or nervous anticipation when seeing his beloved, he mostly just hid behind things, which in this case, was a book. Like many secret crushes however, Lemony lost much peace of mind over wondering if he would ever be brave enough to talk to her and attempt to further the relationship, which was, in this case, nonexistent.

So why, at that moment, he chose to put down his book and blurt out some random thought, Lemony had no idea.

"I've always thought it was a sign of a noble person to arrive early." said Lemony to Beatrice.

Her eyes widened in shock as the other two students laughed casually. Her cheeks reddened and she sat down at her desk quietly.

Lemony felt horrified. _"Did you really just say that?"_ he thought to himself.

Yes, there was no doubt about it, he most certainly had. What did he go and do that for? Now she was embarrassed. Class commenced two minutes later, but all Lemony could think about was making it up to her. He'd started it, he had no choice but to plunge ahead and hope for the best. As they were analyzing their last stanzas for the day, Lemony had an idea.

Half an hour later, a card was passed to Beatrice in home room. It was small, red and folded in two. It had the words, "Lemony Snicket; Student of Rhetoric" on the front. Beatrice reddened for the second time that day. Wasn't that the boy who'd spoken to her during English? They had never met before, yet he'd chosen that moment to speak to her. Bertrand had plagued her for hours as they'd dissected a Lachrymose leech together in Biology.

"He _likes _you, B!" he'd teased. Beatrice had protested hotly, but Bertrand paid no mind to her denials. "Did you see how red in the face he got?" he went on to say. "And he stares at you, I've seen it!"Beatrice didn't know what to think about Lemony. It's hard to think about someone you didn't know existed until that afternoon.

Considering all this, Beatrice opened the card...

On the corner of Broadbend Avenue, in the shade of an enormous cherry tree, sat the Café Desouberr. It was found in a tiny, bustling little town at the foot of the Mortmain Mountains, where the students of V.F.D. would go to walk around and look at the quaint shops, and occasionally have dessert. The Café Desouberr was famous for its particularly scrumptious root beer floats. It was here, in a quiet corner of the dining area, that an eleven year old boy waited anxiously. This boy, as I'm sure you know, was Lemony. He was wondering, as he usually did. He was wondering if he was making a fool of himself, and whether he was a lost cause, and whether or not the café owner's myna bird was giving him suspicious looks from behind the rack of eclairs. As he wondered, he jotted a few things down in a dark grey notebook.

As he was jotting and wondering, the door to the café opened and Beatrice walked in.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a little bell on the door of the café that liked to jingle and embarrass certain customers when they walked in. Beatrice was not that sort of customer; she had a severe stability of mind, it could be said.

As she walked towards him, it was Lemony who was the one feeling embarrassed. He didn't know what to do as she approached his table, but he thought standing up and pulling out her chair might be nice. He didn't know what to say as she smiled politely at him, but he thought, "Hello, how are you?" was a good start.

Beatrice laughed-she couldn't help it. The boy was asking her so earnestly Beatrice wondered if he thought she was sick.

"I'm alright thank you," she said, and meant it. She thought about what he had written on the card-_" You've always looked like an interesting person."_ he'd written.

And all of the sudden, she knew his face, she knew that look-

"I remember you!" Beatrice gasped, "You're Lemony Snicket! The day the old school burned down and I was so scared..." Beatrice smiled softly and Lemony blushed.

"You gave me your jacket and told me everything was alright. I remember you!"

"I remember you, I never forgot." Lemony stammered, " It-it was a terrible day."

"Yes it was." Silence prevailed as the two children remembered one of many fires that had shaped and directed their lives.

Their waiter, a very capable fellow who took his job very seriously and could sense an awkward pause from a mile away, hurried over to take their order.

He calmly gave them their menus and at his suggestion, they both ordered root beer floats.

Taking in their solemn expressions he started to say,

"I didn't realize this was a-" but Lemony cut him off.

"It isn't" he said vehemently.

The poor waiter looked a bit chagrined as he made his way back to the kitchen.

"It's astounding." Lemony muttered.

"What is?"

"The fact that they're everywhere."

Beatrice didn't have to ask who "they" were. Personally, she hadn't really thought about the reasons why she was where she was, or of the tasks she would one day be expected to do.

Maybe, it was because she just didn't want to.

"It just seems so strange..." Beatrice faltered and shook her head.

"Please, what is it?" Lemony prodded gently.

So she told him.

"Have you wondered why _we_ were the ones chosen for this?" Beatrice asked timorously.

"Sometimes I wonder how it would've been if the volunteers had just left us where we were."

Here she lowered her head.

"I understand what you mean," said Lemony thoughtfully.

"However, I can't imagine anything would be better if we were dead."

Just then the waiter came with their drinks, and for a minute or two they dominated the conversation. Then,

"Do you remember what it was like?" Beatrice asked, " the night they took you?"

"Not really," he admitted. "I just remember the smoke and the heat and my parents-telling me to run, run as fast as I could."

"Did you?" whispered Beatrice.

"No, the Volunteers grabbed me before I could do anything but scream."

Beatrice winced- although each and every Volunteer had been recruited the self-same way, never had they related the experience to each other.

"Do you remember what it was like-Before?" Lemony queried, "I mean, do you remember your, parents?"

"No," she admitted " I was too young.- do you?"

Lemony shook his head dolefully and fingered his straw.

"And the sad thing is, even if we wanted to go back, even it was possible- how could we?"

"Knowing the things we do." Beatrice murmured.

"Exactly!" Lemony exclaimed. "Sometimes it's almost a pressure, knowing that we are-"

"The good ones." Beatrice finished for him.

"Yes- the good ones."

Lemony and Beatrice smiled at each other, shy, small, yet understood.

For the next half an hour and the rest of their root beer floats, they talked of other topics, great and small, but considerably lighter than the previous one. Literature, of which they agreed on-(Tolstoy, Homer and Judy Blume being some of their favorites) and music of which they didn't(mostly because Beatrice enjoyed uplifting genres like Instrumental and Indie Rock, while Lemony enjoyed depressing ones like Opra and Country). Under normal circumstances, the conversation would have been slightly different, but as it was, and how the lived, and what they knew made it quite different indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

After finishing their floats, they left the café, and they were still talking. They talked as they walked to the trolly and as they waited for the trolly. They talked all the way to the Headquarters: in spite of a disgruntled, previously napping old man giving them angry glares all the way there.

They talked about mostly everything that came into their minds at the moment, (which is a very dangerous thing to do unless you are absolutely positive that the other person won't laugh at you). They talked about the weekly frisbee matches, the upcoming field trip, the texture of the new school uniforms, whether or not the mandolin could be used in folk music, how annoying long division was and how wonderful poem decoding could be. They talked about everything from molecular biology to the color fuchsia, to their favorite section in the dictionary( M for Beatrice, Z for Lemony), to their favorite day of the week( Thursday for Lemony, Tuesday for Beatrice) to the consistency of the cafeteria oatmeal. They talked about things that they agreed on, like pickles having a day for themselves, and things they disagreed on, like Disney and Whitman and which Walt was more important. They talked about their favorite places to visit( the beach for Beatrice and Stables&Lords, the bookstore around the corner, for Lemony) and their least favorite places to visit( the dentist's office for Lemony and New Jersey for Beatrice) They talked about their after school activities and diversions, things that they did to get their minds off their incredibly important and incredibly undesirable lessons. They talked of the clubs they had recently joined( Swim and Drama for Beatrice, Mancala and Knitting for Lemony), their favorite shows to watch on the telly( As the World Burns for Lemony and Dude Where's My Sock? for Beatrice) and their subsequent blogging attempts ( Beatrice's Murder Mystery Blog was still in good condition but Lemony's reports on how his rhyming dictionary was coming stopped getting comments within the first four days). They talked about their futures and whether or not they were scared about going out into the world and fighting injustice and arson and fetta cheese bombs but knowing all the same that with the kind of information they had at their fingertips they couldn't just stand by and do nothing. However they also talked about what they'd like to be if circumstances were different, and if they had never gotten involved in V.F.D.

"I'd want to be a writer, " said Lemony, " or maybe an anthropologist."

Beatrice didn't know what she wanted to do, or rather, she didn't know what she _didn't_ want to do. Beatrice wanted to be a veterinarian and stockbroker and a waitress. She wanted to learn how to fly a plane and build a house and round up cattle. She wanted to act on Broadway and study hieroglyphics in a pyramid, and explore deepest darkest Africa. She wanted to do anything and everything- she wanted an adventure.

"But most of all" Beatrice said quietly, blushing, " I think I'd like to be a mother."

Lemony didn't know quite what to say to this. It wasn't everyday that you came across a volunteer with a family; it was to dangerous.

"It certainly sounds adventurous." he finally choked out. He couldn't help admire her resolve as she said, "Yes.". He only wished he could be half so brave, and the life of a writer seemed paltry in comparison with her ambition.

"I guess then you are perfectly suited to V.F.D," Lemony said hesitantly, "They do all the stuff you mentioned, and more. You are going to have a very versatile career."

" I suppose you are right. But then again, so are you. Don't forget that."

" I know." Lemony sounded frightened at the prospect but Beatrice appeared not to have heard him. There was a glint in her eye as she said breath-takingly,

"Yes! We are going to have many adventures! Who knows what we might have to do? We could be doctors or lawyers or drive a cab or sail the seven seas!" She looked positively alight.

"It won't be all so wonderful," said Lemony quietly, " but at least we will be helping others, and standing up for justice. "

"I guess that's what makes it so worthwhile."

It was a good thing they had stopped talking for the moment, or they might have missed their stop as it was, they descended from the trolly and entered the familiarity of the dorm.

"I had a lovely time, thank you for inviting me." Beatrice smiled as she walked up the stairs to her quarters. Lemony could only stare after her.

When he went to his room and after preparing for bed, he took out his journal and wrote down the days date. He thought about what to say for a long time. Then finally, he wrote-

"This is what it feels like to have a friend."


End file.
